Invitation to Insomnia

When I said that my wedding invitations were coming along, I meant that I had to design it, glue, cut and mail it. I might as well have gone to the forest and cut the darn tree down and drug it to a factory too.

Yeppers, by the time I rolled up my sleeves to get into the filth of it all, it was too late. I was advised that it would take 6 weeks for the invitations to be done. Shriek! I think I felt my panties bunch.

Anyway, after researching many invitations design ideas, I decided to make my own. I was repulsed by the virgin white lace invites with doves that house each corner of the page. Cheese Whiz! Bad, bad, bad. And the ones that are pretty hip and cool are, of course, super expensive. Ahem like $14/per invite. Yeh right! I must admit, Shane did make a good observation. “Why spend all that money for something that looks nice? It’s going to get thrown away anyway!” Shane responded with wise wizardry. This coming from the romantic that absolutely loathes advertised holidays cough Valentines cough.

He has a valid point. I could care less, if I received an invite that was embossed in Royal Times New Roman 12 font in the shade of sparkling champagne pink packaged with dehydrated rose confetti. I suspect that this is an elementary crime of being a female. We want things just “so.” Perfection is expensive. For example, Mani-Pedi(s) are furnished for womans’ own personal gloat. The only people that notice nails are other woman, well and gay men. The only time I cringe is when my chipped frankenstein nails will be seen by my girlfriends that are keen on the polish fad. Let’s face it men are walking zombies. If I shaved my head today, Shane would be like, “Why do you look different today?”

For as much as I enjoy exercising my creativity, invitations is what it is. It's a piece of information that provides the festivities participants, location and time. It shouldn’t cost a month’s rent. Furthermore, it shouldn't be treated like a bar mitzvah either.

On that note, this is Shellie relishing the benefits of this paper mache facial back to you bob in the studio!

Hard work gets you nowhere

I kind of did something efficient. I finally went to pick up my wedding dress. I truly believe that I’m cursed! My dress is flipping fargin’ god darn it too tight. I bent down to put my shoes on and suffocation was mistaken for oxygen intake. Crap on a popsicle stick!

I will have a good talking to with my personal trainer next week. I’m quite perturbed. I have been working my tush off 4 times a week, if not more, for 3 months now. For as much as I would love abs of steel and a waif's waist, it aint' gonna happen. See, I'm a reasonably patient person. I'm not one of those people that workout hard and starve themselves for two weeks and expect to lose 50 pounds. I'm patient. I truly believe that drastic weight lose leads to massive weight gain. All these fads are just instant gratification. I'm not a fan. I enjoy the stride to hardwork. But c'mon, can I get some love? Can I at least fit in this dress? Whah! I've got nice toned arms and legs, but that gets me nowhere when my wedding dress is painted on. Sexy, but not comfortable.

Sure the sales woman advised that they can let it out, but I thought I could simply slink into this dress. I do admit that I tried the dress on when I was still working in a kitchen. This means, Sherlock, that I was constantly sweating for 9 to 10 hours. If you haven't worked in a kitchen or lived in Africa, you will never fathom the intensity of heat. I didn’t know the meaning of water weight until I quit working in a kitchen. A mere 6 months later, water weight is Satan. I hiss at you!

Anyway, at the advice of my trainer I got off the salt and the cheese. Sodium was no friend of mine, but alas the results are astounding. I must admit the sacrificial sodium was worth it. I’m wondering, if there’s a way around it. Like if I sat in a steam room for an hour everyday, would I be Ms. Slim Jim? I’m usually not this vain, but I just wanna be able to breath in this dress. This dress that I estimate would’ve comfortably fed 6 Thailand families for 3 years.

Quote: "Never eat more than you can lift." Miss piggy

This is Shellie cussing from the top of her lungs from the center of the steam room back to you Bob at the studio.

Reprimand required!

It is officially time to freak out! Where did all the time go? I am approximately two months away from the wedding. Two months! Count’em two! I'll just be relieved when this mess is over and done with.

My procrastination has seemed to have gotten the best of me. Between traveling to South Beach to laying out in the sunshine listening to free music at Stern Grove, I don’t think I’ve managed my time very wisely. The “here and now” is just too inviting to spend in the house preparing for this darn wedding.

My stupid invitations are on the verge of distribution. I realized last week, that I’d better get this invitation crap on the road. Thank god for the “save-the-date” right? Otherwise I’d be triple crown screwed.

Meanwhile, I’ve got Sophia freaking out about her invitations which is at the end of September. Puhlease, talk about jumping the gun. Is Sophia’s trying to “step”? I think that my emotional stems are stagnant, because I don’t feel the stress and pressure at hand! Should I be concerned with my disconcern? I wish my mom was here to slap me.

lol•ly•gag also lal•ly•gag intr.v. lol•ly•gagged, lol•ly•gag•ging, lol•ly•gags
To waste time by puttering aimlessly; dawdle. To fool around, waste time, or spend time lazily.

Signs of lollygag behavior:
1. Taking 2-3 day naps in the day.
2. Fine dining 2-3 times a week.
3. “This is a really f*cken awesome Cabernet, don’t you think?” As Shellie gingerly sips and lollygags with her friends.

Italian Proverb: Chi ha tempo, non aspetti tempo.
Translation: A stitch in time saves nine
Moral: Do not lollygag.

This is Shellie the lollyhag back to you Bob at the studios.

Hanky Panky

South Beach took a lot from me and left me with one brain cell. It was a blast! In fact, fun just doesn’t cut it. It was much more than that! It was madness and insanity all curled into a fruit rollup.

Despite the hairy flight there, I was fine. According to Sophia, I had it good. She sat next to a drunk that absolutely made the mistake of distinguishing alcohol for oxygen. I had Angela to keep my paranoia from racing. Regardless of the weather buildup and the turbulence, I managed to land in Miami with nervous sweaty underpants.

Miami greeted us with dark gray skies equipped with 35 mph winds and warm pelting rain. I think her name was Hurricane Eileen. I myself was never certain with weather forecasts. I never believed in’em. So as the forecasters predicted hurricane, wind and rain for the next four days, my inside voice called, “bullshit.”

The next morning the sun peeked it’s beautiful head through the skies and let down it’s golden mane. I got on my knees and worshipped. The sun is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Oh god, have I mentioned the ocean? It wasn't Hawaii, but it was damn close.

I roomed with Angela and Meghan which made the vacation even much more of a comedy delight. The pleasantries of stuffing pork rinds at 330am in bed was anticlimactic, it was quite satisfying. Honestly, I've never laughed so much in my life. I had my stuffed monkey tucked safe on the bed. I had a framed picture of Shane on the nightstand. C’mon, I needed a little guilt to look me in the eye, before I got some shuteye.

All 18 women were amazing. I met some really cool people. I was frightful at first. 18 women? Who wouldn’t be? Does Sassy, Saucy, Estrogen make your heart stutter? I was deathly afraid until I met each and everyone one of these women. Sure, I don't recall half of their names, but I do remember having a mischeviously tip top time!

I’ll leave all the lewd behavior to your imagination. Just think 18 women in South Beach for a bachelorette party. I must admit there is nothing angelic about it.

Stay tuned for Shellie’s upcoming bachelorette party in Las Vegas on July 8, 2005.

This is Shellie reminding all you ladies to cross your legs back to you Bob at the studio.

Girl Interrupted

Tick, tock, I’m 12 hours away from my departure from this miserable brown bag of a town to the fine sands of South Beach. I can taste the fresh mint and rum waltzing in my mouth, mingling with the smell of the ocean breeze as I sit poolside at the Shore Hotel. Vacation mode sets in. I lay sipping, as the sun and it’s fingertip rays prey it’s razor sharp molten heat into a chocolate cinnamon tan line. The famous words of Angela, “Shellie’s like a beacon! You can spot her a mile away on the beach. That girl gets dark!”

I need a break. This here woman is plain exausted. From trying to figure out the wedding details to seeking a permanent position, that four day happy hour couldn't come at a better time. I can't wait to take a plunge into that ocean and close my eyes to the sound of the ebb and flow of waves.

It's that time boys and girls! It’s Sophia’s bachelorrette party. I’ve never been to Miami so my curiousity keeps jabbing me. Are all the men Tubb and Crocket look alikes? Will Gloria Estafan shake her congas and greet us upon arrival? Will Ricky Martin boogie his cancan while we’re living ma vida loca? Will Donatella Versace strut her blonde locks on the sizzle sidewalks of South Beach? I can't wait to get sucked into the hardbody mecca and the gravity of vanity. These two days of gray and rain are for the dogs. Miami's the pooh so take a sniff!

As I sit here trying to excavate my emotions for the week, my clothes are taking shelter in my hamper. I'm a last minute packer. I enjoy the jolt of last minute spontanaeity like forgetting my toothbrush, shoes and credit card. Damn, I can’t bite Shane's head off, because he won’t be there. Scapegoat anyone?

I need to make way to a nail salon. I promised Sophia, in order to prevent a citywide evacuation, that I paint these toes that, if I’m not mistaken, belong to a possum. I just got off the phone with her. She's really bringing the axe down on my toes. I guess it would be embarassing trodding along with my atrocious talons.

I’m loading up my ipod for the flight and packing my knitting essentials. Did the alarm just go off for a nerd alert? Bite me.

This puts a delay on my wedding plans, which I think is best for everyone. My wedding coordinator just left for her vacation and won't be back until the 28th. The wedding’s going to be fine. The only thing that’s a sure fire is, choke, expensive. I’m simply content that my friends and family will be there.

I hate flying especially when it’s without Shane. He knows how terrified I am about takeoffs and landings. I think the concept of flying is absolutely insane. Especially, when paying a stranger to put my life in his hands for something that isn’t a guarantee. Ding! Stewardess, valium pronto.

I’m sure that South Beach will be fantastic, I will miss Shane. I won’t feel too terrible as he will be attending Kurt’s bachelor’s in Las Vegas. Las Vegas the hell for losers and home for hookers and winners. I won't feel to terrible when the bachelors will feast and oggle at Stripper Sundays poolside of the Hard Rock.

I love life and I just love to live it! Instead of allowing life to take a chomp out of you, take a bite out of life! Remember to relish, chew and swallow, otherwise you'll choke.

This is Shellie Cadelinia advising you to floss! Back to you bob at the studio!

Foiled Again

The past three days has been Groundhog’s day. Shane keeps pushing the button on the wedding plans, “Where’s the checklist? We don’t have the menu set yet? How about the priest or minister? What’s up with the location? What’s up with the wedding coordinator? What’s her fee? Hey, who’s our ring bearer?” Blah, blah, blah, these repeated inquiries are like steeltoe boots hurling at me from all directions. My response is always the same, “no.” The lava in my veins flow and bubble slow and thick into my arteries.

Italian Proverb: If you scatter thorns, don't go barefoot.

His sudden interest in the wedding plans gnaws at my eyeballs. It’s preposterous! He should have been curious six months ago. Are you kidding me? I would have enjoyed sharing these magic moments with him. I don’t mind the random questions and concerns. How dare he pull a Mr. Rip Van Winkle on me. Shah don’t think so! I eagerly handed the responsibilities over to him. Way to take charge!

See here’s the schmutzah, since I’ve known Shane everything has been done for him. He doesn’t book his vacations, his friends are glad to help with the hotel, car, flight; the entire itinerary. He refuses to see a barber. If you wanna get really absurd, his friends trimmed his dome, short for hair, for the past ten years. He’s the type that will be there just provide the date and time.

I mean no harm or slander, he’s by far not spoiled, he simply relies on others for details. I can hear him loud and clear as he shrugs his shoulder and boasts, “I’ve never booked anything before, my friends just do it for me?” This man has simply slipped through the past 12 years blind to details. This is how people become illiterate and inept. Not this year sister, this puppy's getting housebroken, because this here pup ain't pissing on this here floor no more.

This is Shellie Cadelinia praying her 10 Our Father(s) and 5 Hail Mary(s) back to you bob Bob in the Studio.